


Appear Thou in Likeness of a Pumpkin-Spiced Delight

by NightjarPatronus



Series: Flirtations at the Rolling Scones Café [1]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No Magic, Eliot is a theatre kid, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, M/M, Quentin is an English major, be careful about Josh’s baked goods, brief mentions of Ted's illness, gay coding in literature, halloween party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:27:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27443398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightjarPatronus/pseuds/NightjarPatronus
Summary: A cute nerd walks into a coffee shop, and a sexy barista makes a good impression, followed by a late-night study session, a meaningful talk, and a Halloween party.The growing line of customers wind around the rope barriers, an endless sea of increasingly complicated orders as the day goes on. Eliot, in-between mixing drinks, fixes his eyes on a man of interest who might brighten up his day into something above tolerable. The first thing he sees is a worn-out book under the man’s nose and a tuft of brown, floppy hair that hides his face beneath his blue beanie. He wears a brown messenger bag slung over his shoulder, which flops on his side when he moves. He is reading as he shuffles forward in line, sandwiched between an endless hoard of bodies.Eliot needs to get a look at his nerd-boy face.
Relationships: Margo Hanson/Julia Wicker (background), Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: Flirtations at the Rolling Scones Café [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2004997
Comments: 28
Kudos: 66
Collections: The Magicians Harvest Spectacular





	1. Eliot

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to this fic! I hope today has been kind to you, despite the hellscape that is 2020. I have taken on the challenge of my first No Magic AU to broaden my writerly horizons, and I am delighted to announce that the experience has been enjoyable. So I present to you: a fanfiction classic, The Coffee Shop AU, The Magicians Edition.
> 
> Warning: this story alludes to underage drinking, drug use via Hoberman’s baked goods, and Ted Coldwater’s illness, but everyone will be fine.
> 
> A big thank-you to the queliotevents mods for this wonderful collection! And to my beta, LilyAceofDiamonds, who hyped up my abundance of Queliot feels and steered this fic into a coherent reality in the midst of my writing frenzy.
> 
> This fic’s title is inspired by one of Mercutio’s lines in _Romeo and Juliet_ , Act 2 Scene 1.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot signs a name.

Lunch rushes are hell on earth. More intensely so if one is hungover, mildly high, and trying to make three macchiatos with two hands. The pandemonium starts at 11:45 and lasts all the way until mid-afternoon. If Eliot didn’t have his share of rent to worry about, he would’ve never agreed to a Monday shift. But here he is, wishing he can pound his head into the wall to shut everything up. 

The Rolling Scones Café is bustling with overworked students desperate for their second caffeine and pastry fix that day. Leaves made from paper maché have colonized the interior of the Rolling Scones Café, hanging from invisible fishing strings down the top of each wall. They exacerbate the chatter from mingling customers and the grinding of coffee beans at the bar, converting the noises into visual assaults on Eliot’s senses. 

True to the fall season, the coffee shop has been decked out in warm, muted colors—most of all the baristas themselves, who have switched out their sunshine yellow aprons for ones in a rusty shade of orange. See, a good thing about working at the Rolling Scones is the lack of uniforms. There are only two dress codes for work, which Marina had summed up for Eliot on his first day back in July: one, wear the goddamned apron, and two, try not to show up topless or butt-naked. But the freedom is a gift as well as a curse, for Eliot’s current dilemma is one of clashing colors. Emerald green, he can work with, and navy blue works alright most days as well; but if he wants to wear brighter prints, he risks personifying a Hawaiian shirt. Not to mention, large quantities of black is out of the question, too. He’s representing the Rolling Scones, not the Jack-O’-fucking-Lantern.

“Hey, Eliot.” At the register, Margo picks up a large cup and writes down the customer’s name. “Almond iced coffee. Hazelnut.” 

She shoves the cup into Eliot’s hand and raises an eyebrow. Eliot shakes off her concern and squeezes past three coworkers to get to the mini-fridge. He fills the cup with coffee and syrup, and tops it with almond milk, the carton in his hand shaking and the rim of the cup swaying in his vision. 

He should’ve called in sick. The third neat scotch last night had been a mistake. Theoretically, he shouldn’t be the only one in this room falling victim to a hangover, but Margo, as always, is impervious to such pedestrian woes despite drinking with him the night before. Despite being the one to finish his last shot before he can get to it himself, cutting him off.

If Eliot had worked on campus, showing up hungover would’ve gotten him sacked, or written up, probably both. Josh, on the other hand, is pretty lenient about whatever fuckshit his employees engage in off the clock, so long as they keep a clear enough head and the customers remain none the wiser.

Eliot puts a lid on the finished drink and slides the cup down the bar to the pick-up counter, where Todd calls out the customer’s name. Two more cups find their ways into Eliot’s hands, along with another concerned glance from Margo. “Two caramel lattes,” she says. “No sugar.”

He responds with a groan, then traipses back to the coffee makers.

The increasingly good business is Josh’s fault, not that Eliot and his fellow employees would complain. Their boss is more generous with his money than the on-campus employers. Josh Hoberman is something of a local celebrity in Fillory, though the Instagram account of his baked goods have followers all over the world. He had risen to internet fame as a middle schooler with his cooking channel on YouTube, then won a scholarship to Brakebills Culinary at sixteen, then graduated top of his class before disappearing off the grid for a year. Then in April, he’d resurfaced after buying the cake shop next to the Brakebills campus to remodel into this café, and his PR team had done a stellar job hyping up his bakes. Even in summer, when the college town is largely uninhabited, Josh’s establishment has risen well above the Starbucks on campus in reputation. By the time the fall semester started, his muffins were sold out by midday. 

_Sugar-free syrup. Coffee. Milk. Frother. Pass._ Two caramel lattes down. Four more hours to kill before Eliot’s shift ends. Fuck. 

The growing line of customers wind around the rope barriers, an endless sea of increasingly complicated orders as the day goes on. Eliot, in-between mixing drinks, fixes his eyes on a man of interest who might brighten up his day into something above tolerable. The first thing he sees is a worn-out book under the man’s nose and a tuft of brown, floppy hair that hides his face beneath his blue beanie. He wears a brown messenger bag slung over his shoulder, which flops on his side when he moves. He is reading as he shuffles forward in line, sandwiched between an endless hoard of bodies. 

Eliot needs to get a look at his nerd-boy face.

Three iced teas and two mochas later, Eliot gets his chance. Nerd Boy lifts his head to read the menu as the woman in front of him—a professor Eliot had seen around campus—places her order at Margo’s register. ( _“Chocolate croissant, medium iced coffee with caramel syrup.”_ ) He’s cute, kind of melancholic, but he looks huggable, so Eliot can work with the sad moping. Nerd Boy slumps his shoulders when he sees it’s almost his turn, and puts his book away. Eliot softens, already taking pity on the poor soul.

“ _Bambi,_ ” Eliot whispers, inching closer to his best friend. 

When Eliot gets Margo’s attention, he looks at Nerd Boy, then turns back to meet her eyes. He keeps his face neutral with a theatrical professionalism that would’ve made Mayakovsky proud. Todd stops in the middle of making hot chocolate to gawk at the exchange, always so eager to stick his nose and all the rest of him in Eliot’s business. _Todd._ Margo glares, and Todd turns away quickly. 

From the other register, Marina catches the exchange and sends Eliot a warning look that would’ve made him squirm if he were a bad actor. Margo takes the judgment in stride and stares back at their shift manager, daring her to stop them. Marina rolls her eyes and goes back to taking orders from the next customer without a comment. She might enjoy the occasional intimidation, but whatever problem she has isn’t worth wasting time in the middle of a lunch rush to address. 

Margo finishes taking the professor’s order, then takes a medium cup, writes down a name, and swaps places with Eliot. But not before eyeing Nerd Boy herself and offering her judgment—in this case, an I-guess-he’s-fine tilt of her head. _Really?_ she mouths. 

The last man to break Eliot’s heart had been a nerd, so the appraisal is understandable, as much as it stings. Mike had fucked Hamlet’s understudy backstage after the end-of-semester performance back in May, then showed up at Eliot’s apartment for their dinner date with a hickey on his neck that flushed through the too-dark foundation he’d dabbed on to try and cover his ass. Four-and-a-half months later, Eliot is still reeling from his betrayal. So much for putting faith in a biology major. 

The breakup had been a tragedy of Shakespearian proportions. Margo’s subsequent efforts of finding Eliot a better cock—her words—had been in vain. He’d turned down every offer, yet today, he’s seeking a guy out voluntarily.

Eliot moves to the register, which is still logged into Margo’s account, but whatever. He breathes in and out, forcing the maudlin look off his face, to channel an effortless approachability that playing Jack Kelly last winter had helped him perfect. “Good afternoon. What can I get you?” 

“Oh, hi!” Nerd Boy responds, his voice cracking in a higher pitch than Eliot expects. “I—um, sorry,” he adds, lowering his voice and clearing his throat.

“Don’t worry about it,” Eliot says, slipping into the friendly barista role with ease. “So. Your order?”

“I’ll have, umm, scones? Scones. And a coffee. Medium.”

Nerd Boy breathes a sigh of relief after stammering it all out, already scanning the room for an escape route. The look of regret on his face indicates he does not, in fact, care for scones, and though he’s a grown man, he withers under Eliot’s gaze, his hair drooping over the sides of his face like floppy puppy-dog ears. Scones, and a coffee? He’ll have to be more specific. Normally, stalling during a lunch rush is a heinous crime, but in this case, Eliot lets it slide. 

“How about the iced pumpkin spice latte?” Eliot nods at the poster mounted on the glass display case by Marina’s side. A cutesy, hand-illustrated promo by an art major under Josh’s commission. “You can get the apple-cinnamon muffin for fifty-percent off if you make it a large. All our muffins are baked this morning, completely worth the hype, and I don’t normally say that about muffins.”

“Yes. Okay.” Nerd Boy smiles, visibly relaxing. “I’ll have those.”

Nerd Boy hands over his credit card with a swift twitch of his fingers. He has the dexterity of a sleight-of-hand magician, and there are ink smudges on his index finger. Reluctantly, Eliot tears his gaze from the nimble hands to ring him up. 

“Your name?” Eliot hands back his card and receipt.

“Quentin Coldwater,” he says. Then, jerking back in alarm, “No, I-I mean—just Quentin.”

Eliot’s mind latches on to the Q in his name. _Q._ Hmm.

As much as Eliot sympathizes, Q’s panic is endearing. “Have a nice day,” Eliot says calmly, willing away the tightness in his throat, “ _Just Quentin._ ”

Margo rolls her eyes at Eliot’s cheesiness, having eavesdropped this whole time without shame. Normally she would’ve said something. He has a feeling she’s sparing the lame pick-up line for Q’s sake more than Eliot’s.

The balding man who is next in line huffs, nostrils flaring, and checks his phone for the time. Marina’s customer is still taking her sweet time being indecisive. Margo is too busy making drinks to switch back, so Eliot uncaps the sharpie and signs the name _Quentin_ across the length of a large plastic cup with an intricate cursive—a loopy, oversized Q, with the rest of the letters hanging off the little tail—and passes it down. 

“Next in line?” Eliot addresses the balding man with a cordial smile, hoping to snuff out any complaint he might want to unleash. “Hello. Thank you for waiting.”

It’s only when Margo sets down the pumpkin spice latte and packed muffin on the pick-up counter, minutes later, that Eliot second-guesses the flourish he’d put into the penmanship of Q’s name. But Todd is already calling Quentin’s name. Too late. 

Quentin stumbles to the front to pick up his order, apologizing to everyone he pushes past. He takes his latte and his muffin and escapes the crowd, stopping beside the door to check his items.

Eliot happens to be staring that way again when Q looks up, not because he hasn’t taken his eyes off him, no no, it’s all a big, happy coincidence. Quentin waves, and when he sees the intricate signature on his cup, his grin widens, showing off an achingly cute set of dimples Eliot wishes he’d seen up close. 

_Thank you,_ Quentin mouths.

Both hands occupied with sustenance, Quentin pushes the door open with his elbow. He nearly drops the brown paper bag with the muffin on his way out, but catches it, then staggers onto the sidewalk. The top of his head disappears among the cluster of pedestrians as he walks away.

Once Q is gone, Margo switches back to her post, nudging Eliot aside. She gives him a _look_. _You good?_ She might be asking. Or, perhaps, most likely, _the fuck has gotten into you?_

“Don’t start,” Eliot mutters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have nothing against biology majors, or the color orange. I cannot say the same for Eliot.


	2. Quentin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin borrows a coat.

Quentin paces the streets outside the Brakebills campus, the anxious voices growing unbearably loud in his head. His dad had a radiation therapy session today, and he’d promised to get home before dinner. He hasn’t texted, and it’s already seven. Did something happen? 

He hasn’t received any new messages since he’d left Starbucks to clear his head, forcing an end to his four-hour pointless attempt to study. With New Jersey hundreds of miles away and no quick means to check up on his dad in person, Quentin gives in to Plan B as he waits to cross the street and texts his mom. She, of course, responds in seconds, and agrees to drive over to his dad’s house to see what’s up. 

When his phone buzzes again two blocks later, he pries it out of his pocket, but, fuck, it turns out to be a weather alert. It’s going to rain some time this evening—seventy percent chance of it. The warning is too little, too late; rain is already drizzling down on him the whole way, too weak to justify an umbrella but an undeniable nuisance regardless. 

His legs carry him to the Rolling Scones Café while his mind is busy arguing with itself. _Stop jumping to the worst conclusions, Jesus._ At least he’ll have a nice muffin to fill him up while he waits for some concrete indication that his dad’s still alive. Maybe food will help. He hopes. He’d finally given in to the hype around campus and checked out the Rolling Scones for himself last Monday, and it didn’t disappoint, for various reasons. Since then, Quentin has been wanting to come back, but the thought of walking into another lunch or dinner rush has kept him procrastinating, even if the promise of the unfairly sexy barista is too tempting to deny. 

He stops at the vinyl-decorated shopfront with _The Rolling Scones Café_ in large, brushstroke letters across the bottom of the window, and peers in. It’s late enough that there are actual empty tables inside the café—only a handful, but Quentin merely acknowledges the fact, already distracted by the man shaking a steel tumbler by the coffee machines, the knot of his tie artfully loosened and the top few buttons of his shirt undone, all cloaked behind the garish orange apron like one huge injustice. Eliot, Quentin remembered from his name tag, is chatting with his friend behind the bar. 

Quentin realizes how he must look, standing and soaking and longing outside the window. Right as he considers turning back to his dorm to change out of his hoodie and find a real umbrella, Eliot turns around from his conversation with his friend inside and spots Quentin. Quentin waves. Winces. Curses himself for not being dressed appropriately for a second encounter.

A bell chimes as the café’s door opens. A different barista sticks her head out, a woman with bleached blonde hair and blue eyes that bore into Quentin’s soul. “Stop gawking. Get in or piss off.”

The rain makes the decision for Quentin by doubling down with a crash of thunder. Avoiding the scary woman’s gaze, Quentin shuffles inside, cringing as the soles of his shoes squeak against the floor. Eliot stops in the middle of mixing his drink and gives Quentin a curious once-over before the corners of his lips turn up into a smile that drops as quickly as it appears. Quentin pries off his soaked hoodie as he waits in line and checks out the overhead menu behind the bar, hand-written on chalkboards and decorated with colorful illustrations of colorful leaves and pumpkins. 

Only one register is open now that the dinner rush is over. The line moves quickly, and the woman working the register—Margo, says her name tag—gives Quentin a long look before stepping aside, switching places with Eliot.

“Hey,” Quentin says when it’s his turn, this time careful to keep his voice calm. 

“Quentin Coldwater,” Eliot responds, a stray curl falls loose from his mussed-up hair, tickling his brow. He’s unfairly tall like a tower of gorgeous shadowing Quentin’s form over the bar. Quentin tilts his head up to see his face, killing any chance of subtlety. “We meet again.”

“Um, hot chocolate with whipped cream and cinnamon. Medium. Oh and—are there any pumpkin pie turnovers left?” The order tumbles out of Quentin’s mouth before he gives himself a chance to breathe. 

“For here or to go?”

“For here.” Quentin’s heart drops when he sees the dejected look on Eliot’s face. “Thanks, by the way,” he adds, lowering his voice so only Eliot can hear, “for last time.”

“I do what I do.” Eliot inclines his head, his expression inscrutable. “Find a table, and I’ll bring everything over when they’re done.”

Quentin moves to the end of the bar to wait for his order, but he sees Margo whisper something to Eliot, followed by a tilt of her head and what might be a nod. If she’s talking about Quentin, she’s not being subtle about it, and Quentin gets the feeling she gives no shits if he calls her out on it, not that he’d ever. Margo takes over the register again to let Eliot make the drink, and Quentin finds an empty table nearby. 

Though Quentin is still soaked in part from the rain with a bunched-up hoodie in hand, he swears the room is getting warmer. To take his mind off of whatever is making him so flustered, he gives his homework another shot. A few minutes later Margo swings by with his food. He sips on the hot chocolate and nibbles the pastry while he continues to turn the pages, skimming as fast as his brain allows. By some miracle, being in the Rolling Scones has calmed Quentin’s nerves, enough that he’s ten chapters in before someone sits down at the chair opposite of him. 

He looks up and directly into Margo’s unblinking eyes, and sinks deeper into his seat. Margo is scrutinizing him like a critic judging a controversial piece of art. “You’re an English major?” she pries, not bothering with formalities like _hi, how’s it going, I’m Margo…_ you know, normal conversation starters.

All Quentin does is nod, trying to remember how to speak.

“ _Candide_ by Voltaire?” Margo looks down at the book’s cover. “You mind spoilers?” She places a manicured hand on the book’s spine. “I know how it ends. I can spare you a few hours.”

“Please do.” Quentin finds his voice, taking a swig of what’s left of his hot chocolate. “I’m supposed to do a presentation. Like, tomorrow.”

“This your first time reading it?”

“Yeah.”

“Shit.”

“I know.”

It’s already dark out. Quentin has been here for hours, long enough that he’s one of the last two customers here. The rain has died down outside. The night has snuck up on him while he’s cooped up inside the comfort of this shop, reading.

Margo turns to the bar. “Hey, Eliot!” 

Eliot turns their way. The window behind Eliot slides open, and Josh—Quentin recognizes him from Instagram—sticks his head out from the back kitchen and mouths _quiet_. Margo shrugs off the warning from her boss and turns the cover of Quentin’s book for Eliot to see. 

A smirk crosses Eliot’s face. Five minutes later, after the last customer in line has been served, he walks over and pulls a chair to sit by Margo’s side. “Someone in need of a _Candide_ expert?” 

“Eliot learned this last year,” Margo explains. “Tough instructor, nearly flunked the whole class. He made them watch the operetta version five times. What did you have to do for the final again? Group project?”

“Pick one scene to rewrite and re-enact in groups of four,” Eliot recites. “Twenty minutes or less, or you get an F. And yes, Mayakovsky was a real cunt—I mean _cock_ ,” he amends when Margo shoots him a withering look. “So, how may I assist?”

“Q has to do a presentation.” Margo says. “He hasn’t read the thing.”

The nickname takes Quentin by surprise. At least he has the perfect excuse to look away. Digging into his bag, he fishes out the piece of paper with the prompts. “We have to pick one of these three topics.”

“How long does it have to be?” Eliot asks.

“Ten minutes. No powerpoints or anything, but I haven’t finished—”

“I got you,” Eliot assures him. “Don’t fret. You’ll ace this thing.”

Quentin hands Eliot the sheet of paper with the prompts. Eliot skims through the big blocks of text about the rules and guidelines and makes a face, then hands it over to Margo to read out loud.

When Margo gets to prompt number three, Eliot gives an approving nod. “Go with the third. I’ll give you a crash course. The colonel’s gay-coded up the ass—that’s the Baron’s son, _he’s_ the colonel,” he reminds Quentin when he sees he’s confused. “Astonishing evidence for an eighteenth century book, not that most people would’ve picked up on the hints.”

Margo leaves her seat to go back to the bar, and Eliot slides over before launching into a monologue about the homosexual subtext, complete with recounts of the creative liberties he and his group project partners had taken to try and whip up something modern and passable by his professor’s impossible standards. Meanwhile, Margo wipes down the countertop and puts the creamers back in the fridge without complaining, sparing the occasional glance back at Eliot. Whenever Quentin catches her in the act, she just winks. 

All of this aside, Quentin is still stressing about his dad. Radiation therapy sessions are short. By now his dad has to have made his way home, unless something went wrong at the hospital and he had to stay overnight, or something happened on his Uber ride home—but with the possibility that things are actually fine, Quentin still has to get on with his presentation tomorrow unless he wants an F. Which he can’t half-ass without making it blatantly obvious that he didn’t finish the book. 

Eliot stops talking when he notices Quentin frowning, but Quentin shakes his head. He’s not about to let an unplanned tutoring session turn into a pity-party. Not with a guy he barely knows, who happens to be an expert on an implicitly gay, fictional colonel. 

“So, chapters fourteen to sixteen,” Quentin repeats. “And find evidence about his relationship with his mentor? Got it. Shit. Thank you— _so much._ ”

“Unless your professor’s the stuffy type who…” Eliot gestures vaguely, searching for a sophisticated-sounding euphemism, “refuses to acknowledge subtext that challenges traditional perceptions, blah blah, English majors would eat that shit up, unless they’re cocks.”

“Professor March is alright,” Quentin assures him. “He’ll be, uh, open. To my interpretations. Or, well, I guess, yours.”

Eliot has moved closer while they speak, gravitating toward the center of the table. His fingers toy with the fake autumn roses sitting in the tall vase, stroking the petals like they’re delicate pieces of art. “I’m happy to let you share the credit.”

“You are?”

“Why not.” Eliot pulls his hands away and slides the piece of paper with the prompts back to Quentin’s side. “If you need more stuff to fill up your time, you could add a few lines about the religious leaders’ hypocrisy…”

Eliot takes out his phone to show him the pictures he took before his group performance last year. Quentin’s heart leaps when he faces Eliot’s gorgeous headshots, the hint of blush under his sharp cheekbones and dark mascara framing his hazel eyes. 

“I think you’ve got yourself a fan,” Margo comments. At some point she’d come over again from the bar, and is now standing right behind Quentin, studying his reaction to—well, Eliot, apparently. 

Margo is still wearing her apron, but she holds a coat in her hand like she’s ready to retire for the night. She puts a hand on his shoulder, never mind that hours ago they were still strangers, and leans closer to examine the picture on Eliot’s phone. “Yeah, this was passable.”

Eliot feigns a look of hurt, putting a hand over his heart. “Why must you be so cruel?”

“You should’ve seen him as Mercutio in Romeo and Juliet,” Margo adds. “That was peak Eliot.”

“ _Thank you,_ ” Eliot says pointedly, earning him a light shove from Margo.

Margo shrugs on her coat with flair like it’s a glorious cape. “I’m leaving. You’re closing up.” She throws a set of keys in the air, which Eliot catches with a graceful reflex. 

“Don’t leave me,” Eliot whines.

Quentin’s phone buzzes inside his back pocket, and he braces himself for whatever news he might find.

Margo takes off her apron and stuffs it in Eliot’s already outstretched hand, and blows a kiss that might have been intended for her friend, except she’s catching Quentin’s eye while doing it. “Tell Hoberman to take my fucking name off the morning shift for Friday and give it to Todd. I’m done waking up early. Night! Don’t stay up too late.”

Eliot watches her go until she disappears down the street, then stands up, Margo’s apron in hand. “I’ll put this in her locker. Give me a few minutes.”

Once Eliot disappears through the kitchen door to the back room, Quentin checks his phone. _Got home hours ago. Phone died, sorry. I’m ok,_ his dad has texted. He sighs, relieved, and texts back a quick goodnight before putting the phone back in his pocket. 

When Eliot returns, Quentin is waiting with a smile on his face.

“Everything okay?” Eliot asks, sitting back down. 

There’s genuine concern in Eliot’s eyes. Quentin is tempted to spill everything, but he doesn’t. “Oh, yeah.” Quentin crosses his arms and leans forward at the table, gravitating a little closer. “Everything’s perfect.”

Two hours later, Quentin packs up his things with more confidence than he once thought himself capable of having. He had come to the Rolling Scones hoping for a decent beverage and ended up finding an… acquaintance? He’s not sure where Eliot draws the friendship line, given he hasn’t known the man at all until two days ago.

Eliot checks the shop once more before he closes up. Quentin waits for him outside, holding his hoodie. The wind picks up after the rain subsides, but given the choice between shivering and bundling up in something rain-soaked, the former is the lesser evil. To Quentin’s surprise, Eliot walks out with a plastic bag and a double-breasted peacoat in navy blue.

“I always keep a spare in my locker. Here,” Eliot explains, handing over the coat and the plastic bag. “ _Do not_ wash it, under any fucking circumstance,” he instructs, “or put it in a dryer, or whatever it is you do with sweatshirts; this shit is worth half my student loan. Give it back the next time you drop by.”

“Oh. That’s really… Are you-are you sure?”

“You’ll catch a cold,” Eliot insists. “Shut up and take it, Coldwater.”

Quentin obliges, flustered at the mention of his last name—he’d blurted it out on Monday because he was an idiot with a crush. After putting the hoodie in the bag, Quentin puts on the coat and buttons it up, feeling comically small as the hem goes all the way down to his knee and his hands disappear inside the sleeves. He realizes how close to freezing he had been without the added layer. “Thank you.”

“Not bad,” Eliot says, checking him out. 

“I, um, I should have your—your, you know, in case you’re not here when I am and I don’t know when you’ll be here?” Quentin stammers out his question and pulls out the phone from his pocket, unlocking it and setting up a new contact.

Eliot types out his information with a practiced ease, and Quentin tries not to think about how many times he must have done this with other guys, with the way he looks and the ease of access to good-looking students from working in the most popular coffee shop in town. “If you want my number, you could’ve just asked,” Eliot teases.

Quentin takes back his phone and says his goodbyes, not denying his intention. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eliot: Here, take my very expensive coat, beautiful stranger who I’ve only met twice.  
> Also Eliot: _Do not, _for the sake of the fucking universe, put this in the dryer.__
> 
> __A big thank-you to my friends peacocktalk on tumblr, who allowed me to pick his theatre-kid brain for ideas on this version of Eliot, and resilient_rose on AO3, who gave me a great load of ideas for fall-themed bakes._ _
> 
> __Disclaimer: I based all of the information about _Candide_ on summaries from Sparknotes, so apologies if I spun anything out of proportions._ _


	3. Eliot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot gets a paper bag.

On Friday, there are still no messages from Quentin. Yesterday’s silence was disappointing, but today Eliot just feels like an idiot. For all he knows, he had handed an original Ralph Lauren to a con man who had put up a very convincing helpless-nerd act. Margo assures him Q doesn’t look the type. She’s never been wrong about her approvals, and she’d admitted two nights ago that Q might have been a softie, but his heart’s in the right place. 

“You’re Eliot?”

A small woman with wavy hair down to her waist is standing at the register, her eyes fixed on Eliot’s name tag. She’s assessing him with the same intensity that Bambi used to size Quentin up the other night. He gives her a slight nod. 

“I’m Julia. Quentin asked me to bring this back.” Julia hands him a paper bag, a fancy one printed with colorful balloons normally used for birthday presents. Inside is his coat, neatly folded. “He says thank you.”

“Oh.” Eliot clears his throat. “Thanks.”

Julia must have noticed his look of disappointment, because she adds, “He wanted to come in person, but he had to leave town. Family emergency.”

With that, she walks off, and Eliot watches her leave. He asks Margo to cover the next few customers, and goes through the kitchen to the locker room around the back to put away his coat, ignoring Marina’s muttered complaint about non-paying customers holding up the line. There is a folded piece of paper tucked beside his coat, a hand-written note in small, neat letters. Eliot reads through it three times, blocking out the previous words with his thumb as he pieces together the message so the letters don’t fall into a jumble inside his head. 

_Hi Eliot,_

_Thank you again for lending me your coat to keep me warm. Don’t worry, I didn’t put it in the washer (or the dryer), like you asked. And a double thank-you for saving me from flunking my presentation. Your crash course was really helpful. Here’s my number, in case I forgot to text you before I came by, and you never got to save it on your phone._

At the bottom, under the phone number, is a single letter.

_— Q_

Eliot places the note in the coat’s inner pocket and locks everything up.

He hurries back to work before Marina can decide to barge in and give him an earful. As rush hour comes and goes, he goes through the motions of his friendly barista act, a role he has rehearsed so many times, he could deliver his lines when he’s high off his ass. His mind keeps drifting back to the neat, printed letters on the hand-written note. It seems like Quentin was fully expecting to stop by in person and deliver the coat himself, like he’d left a note specifically addressed to Eliot in case he wasn’t on shift. 

But Q’s family emergency had pulled him away last-minute. Eliot should’ve picked up on the signs. Quentin had seemed stressed when he stumbled into the café during the rain. If Eliot had cared to ask if Q was really okay that night instead of showing off his fabulous gay colonel shots, he might’ve seen the absence coming instead of jumping to conclusions. He might’ve… helped, tried to offer some kind words, _something_. 

Instead, he’d sulked for a day and a half, wondering if he’d been ghosted like some self-centered prick.

Not that Quentin owed Eliot any explanation. He barely knows Q beyond his name, but a full portrait of the cute nerd has come alive in what little time they’d known each other: the brown messenger bag stuffed with books and stray pieces of paper; the floppy hair framing his face that Eliot wants desperately to tuck behind his ear; the way he stumbles over his words when he’s passionate, or flustered, or both.

Margo leans against the bar counter and prods Eliot in the chest when their shift is done. “Hey. Stop moping.”

Eliot shrugs but doesn’t argue. His lack of bantering after Julia’s visit had said all Margo needed to know. Now that they’re off, she has the rest of the afternoon to pry feelings out of him before her International Policies lecture this evening. “I feel like shit,” Eliot admits. They walk back through the kitchen. “I thought he ditched me.”

“And stole your nice Ralph Lauren?” Margo pushes the locker room’s door open, and they step in. “Some men would do that for fashion. You’re not a cock for being paranoid.”

“He left a note.” Eliot opens his locker and puts on his coat. He hands her the paper bag. “It’s in the pocket.”

Margo finds the note without needing to ask which pocket. Eliot keeps personal shit in his inner pockets by habit—literally close to his heart, as cliché as that sounds now that he thinks it out loud. She skims through the letter before folding it back up. “He’s a softie. Told you. Sounds like he really wants to get in your pants, though. You up for that?”

“I’m not sure he still wants this. Julia said he had a family emergency.”

“It’s not your fault you didn’t see it coming,” she assures him.

“Yeah, but now I don’t know if I should—”

“Jesus, just text him and ask if he needs your pity,” Marina barges into the conversation. She struts past them and opens her locker to pick up her purse. “No, you don’t get to call me a bitch for eavesdropping, this is a public space,” she adds before Margo can call her out, “so either wait ‘till you’re home before you get all broody or spill it. Who’s this guy?”

“We’re leaving,” Margo says pointedly. She hands back everything to Eliot except the note, which she keeps in her own pocket, fully intending to discuss it with him later once they’re back in their shared apartment.

Marina, not easily deterred, steps into their path and blocks their way. “Fine. Keep your boy troubles to yourself. But next time you walk out on us when you’re not on break,” she warns, her eyes boring into Eliot’s, “I’m switching your schedule with Todd’s.”

* * *

Eliot brings a different spare coat to the Rolling Scones next time, keeping the one Quentin had worn hanging on the door of his wardrobe at home. Concentrating at work is easier said than done when he’s tall enough to peer over everyone’s heads, expecting to see a floppy mop of brown hair or a knitted beanie hovering above an open book. 

He suppresses his distractions whenever Marina’s watching, of course. He’d rather serve day-old fries at the Brakebills dining hall than work a morning shift in Todd’s place. After living eighteen years playing the soul-sucking role of a farm boy, he’s no stranger to feigning apathy. And so he feigns for a whole week and doesn’t text the number he had memorized since he’d first seen the note. 

The day Eliot accepts a rice krispy ghost from Josh, crunchy at the base and topped with sickly sweet, white fondant, is the day Quentin finally shows up. 

The treat itself isn’t the problem. Eliot’s predicament lies in the “gourmet herbs” with which Josh had laced the marshmallow fluff. Josh had offered the snack because Eliot had shown up to work early, and Margo, right on Eliot’s heel, had helped herself to a fresh cookie off of their boss’ plate. The rice krispy had come with a pat on Eliot’s back and a look of pity that made him shrivel, a consolation prize for his failed courtship that has become an item of gossip among all Rolling Scones employees thanks to Marina.

Five minutes to the end of his shift, Eliot is still mildly high, and he spots the floppy brown hair, sans-beanie, in the crowd. By mildly high, he means he’s seeing gold, fairy dust-like sparkles dancing in the air, trailing around the customers’ heads like halos. Quentin, in his sheepish-smiled glory, is aglow with a pinkish aura under the marshmallow’s influence. There hadn’t been _that much_ herbs in the rice krispy, but he barely gets through Quentin’s order—to stay, not to go, which is, hmm, good—before he flashes a dopey smile that he regrets instantly. 

Margo drags Eliot into the kitchen after clocking them both out. She forces him into a chair in front of Josh, who is placing black licorice spiders onto cupcakes. “Sober him up,” she orders before she disappears into the locker room. “He’s scaring the poor boy.”

Josh sifts through his concoctions inside the cabinets and picks out a mason jar filled with a honey-colored liquid. He sticks the open jar under Eliot’s nose. “Don’t drink this unless you want to spend tonight at the ER getting your stomach pumped. Just lean in and give it a good sniff.”

The smell hits after one inhale, some unspeakable hybrid between orange-scented dish soap and cinnamon. “The fuck is in this?” Eliot asks, coughing.

“This café would be deserted if I gave away my secret recipes.” Josh hands him a glass of water, inside which he added a slice of lemon and stirred in some honey. “Drink up.”

“Fine.” Eliot drains the glass.

“That marshmallow wasn’t too potent. I woke you up a bit. Sit this out. You’ll be sobered up in, ten, fifteen minutes?” Josh peers out the window at the customers in the shop. “Your boyfriend is nose deep in some brick-sized novel. Like, Lord of the Rings-thick. Don’t stress. He’ll be here all afternoon.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Josh says. Then he ducks away to check on the pecan tarts sizzling in his BlueStar oven, leaving Eliot in peace.

Ten minutes later, Eliot ducks into the locker room and takes off his apron, then musses up his hair with the pomade he keeps for exactly this type of emergency. There’s no hiding the evidence that he hadn’t slept much since the last time he and Quentin spoke, despite Margo’s insistence on forcing him to bed before midnight each night so he could stop looking like Count Dracula. Still, he admires his true Eliot form in the mirror hooked behind his locker door and pops opens another shirt button to show more chest. This will do.

“You going to thank me for those slacks?”

Eliot turns around to see Margo sitting cross-legged on the bench, admiring his look. He thought she’d gone home.

“Thank you for persuading me out of laundry-day khakis,” Eliot says with a gracious bow, taking her hand and kissing the back of it. Today is a good day to wear his best slacks; Margo had insisted upon it in the morning.

She nods, satisfied with his gratitude. “You owe me twenty for the dry cleaning. Now go make a good impression.”

“I thought you said he wasn’t that cute.”

“I say shit about all your guys.” Margo stands up and straightens his collars before brushing a smidge of flour off his shoulder. “Q’s by far the nicest.”

Sauntering out into the open café once more Eliot spots Quentin nestled in the reading nook by the window that doubles as his seat, crouched-up like a gargoyle with a book perched between his knees. 

Eliot sits across the table and watches him read. Q is whispering the words to himself, thumbing through the pages with gentle hands. Eliot recognizes the grandfather clock with the ram horns on the book cover, one from the Fillory series — based in this very town — that Bambi had loved when she was a kid. Five pages later, not that Eliot is counting, Quentin looks up. 

“Eliot! Shit!” He startles. He bookmarks the page he’s on and lowers his legs, and shoves the book back into his bag. “I mean, hi.”

“I just got off work, but I can get you a refill.” Eliot nods at the empty mug on the table. “If you so desire.”

In the back of Eliot’s head, he’s kicking himself for the stupid pickup line. As far as the outside world can tell, though, his face is the perfect image of calm. Thank you, improv.

“I do. I do so desire.” Quentin smiles, and Eliot’s worries disappear. Then Quentin adds, his expression fading too quickly. “Actually—maybe later.”

“Yeah. Later,” Eliot agrees. “Can we talk?”

Quentin nods.

“I’ll start,” Eliot says, “so we talked the other night, and it was good. I put my Voltaire knowledge to test. I loaned you my coat, gave you my number… Look, I’m trying to say, I was making all these… assumptions, and it was stupid. To think you meant something different. I was projecting, or something, reading too much into… this. And I didn’t know you had a family emergency hanging over your head. I’m sorry. I knew you were stressed. I should’ve made sure you were okay.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Quentin says, frowning. He tucks his hair behind his ear, giving Eliot his full-faced sincerity. “I was going to tell you about my dad, right after the presentation, but, um, something happened—something happened two hours after my class ended. My mom called me. And-and it was bad, really bad, so I went home. I forgot about your coat and the note I wrote but the next day I remembered and I texted Jules to bring it over and she did, and, um, I wanted to text you, give you a heads up, but it was—everything was hectic at home and it was a mess.” He winces. “Sorry. That sounded a lot clearer in my head.” 

Eliot shakes his head. Q’s not the one who needs to apologize for acting off. _He_ had a real reason. Eliot had a hunch, a ridiculous hunch, for assuming the worst of someone with so much heart.

“I came by today to thank you,” Quentin continues. The crease between his eyebrows disappears, and his shoulders sink in relief when he sees that Eliot’s not mad. “For the presentation, and for not letting me catch a cold.”

“I’m glad I helped.”

“I got an A-minus, so, you really, _really_ saved me.”

“Minus?”

“The professor said I talked too much.”

“Bullshit.”

“I know, right?” Quentin down. He touches the handle of his mug, finding the right words. “About last week—I’m sorry I couldn’t come in person.”

“Oh, no, that’s fine. I get it.” 

“My dad’s been sick,” Quentin blurts out, his voice low enough that no one else picks up on their conversation. Eliot wants to tell him he doesn’t have to reveal anything, but he shakes his head and carries on. “Brain tumor. My mom told me about it a week after I started at Brakebills, and it’s been—well, it’s been a shitshow. Julia’s been a great help, but he’s doing radiation therapy now, and he has this whole thing about handling everything on his own, and I text him to check up on him, but the other night he wasn’t responding and so I got worried. Then I asked my mom, and she drove up to his house—they split when I was fifteen but she doesn’t live too far away—so she dropped by, and she told me he’s fine. But the next day… he wasn’t. We had a scare. That’s why I left town.”

“Shit,” Eliot says. “I’m sorry. How is he now?”

“He’s home now. I just came back yesterday. He had to stay in the hospital for a week but he didn’t want my mom to fuss over him, so I kept him company. He has a tumor, and he’s more stressed about his ex.” Quentin sighs at the irony. “The good news is I know he’s fine, since he has the energy to complain. He’s starting his last round of therapy after Thanksgiving.”

“That must’ve been hard,” Eliot says. “If there’s anything I can do, homework you need help with, I’m here three days a week. Afternoons, usually; not early mornings.”

“Fuck mornings,” Quentin agrees. He slings his messenger bag over his shoulder and picks up his coat. “Thank you. Again. For everything. I have to retake a midterm at four. I missed it when I went home last week. So, um, bye.”

And just like that, the conversation’s done. If only they weren’t in a rush. “Don’t mention it.”

Then Quentin leans forward, dropping his gaze to the sliver of chest behind the open buttons of Eliot’s shirt before looking back into Eliot’s eyes, channeling a courage so unexpected, it’s a fucking turn-on. “You weren’t wrong, by the way,” he admits, dangerously close to blushing. “I _was_ looking for something different.”

He’s close enough that he’s practically taunting, but Eliot holds himself still, barely. Making out in a popular café in mid-afternoon is going to bite him in the cock when he works at said café. Plus, he’s pretty sure Marina is watching his every move, waiting to gossip the fuck out of this rendezvous. 

“Text me?” Eliot asks, sounding perfectly calm and not at all like he wants to get into Quentin’s pants. He has his freshman year voice lessons to thank.

Quentin stands up. “I’ll text you,” he promises. “For real this time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have never gotten high off of a Josh Hoberman Rice Krispy Treat, so I am in no way stating that the supposed cure in that mason jar will be effective in snapping someone out of a drug-induced haze. Do not try this at home. (Please.)


	4. Quentin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin wears a tracksuit.

In one afternoon, the Rolling Scones Café transforms into a party house. Josh Hoberman had shut down his establishment at two in the afternoon following the end of the lunch rush, and all his staff had helped put the Halloween decorations into place.

Quentin knows all this because Eliot has been texting him all day, alternating between shameless words of flirtation and suggestive emojis, the latter of which Quentin has to Google to decipher. As a guest, Quentin’s not allowed to enter the place before fifteen-past-seven. He spends the better part of the afternoon cursing James for the stupid bet, and his _stupid_ past self for agreeing to said bet, all the while sitting on his bed in his black tracksuit with a cat’s tail pinned behind his butt and matching ears clipped to his hair.

Eventually, Julia, still in her day clothes, swoops into Quentin’s dorm with his Cat Noir mask and a sandwich to share before he leaves for the party.

Per Eliot’s invitation—a gif of lattices spelling out the words and images on a pumpkin pie’s surface—Quentin saves room for more food, expecting to be bombarded with Josh’s Instagram-famous desserts. Eliot waits for Quentin by the front door of the Rollin Scones, dressed like a Greek God. The bronzer and highlighter sharpen the perfect contours of his face. The silky himation draped around his body is historically accurate, but provides an infuriating amount of coverage, leaving much to Quentin’s thirst-driven imagination.

“Evening,” Eliot announces with the grandeur of a deity. He pauses to check Quentin out from head to toe, once, twice, before he asks, “Are you the cat from the ladybug show?”

Quentin sighs. “Cat Noir.”

“You make a cute kitten,” Eliot tells him, which helps, a little, but still. _Still._

Eliot puts an arm around Quentin’s shoulder and swings them by the front door. The bouncer gives Quentin a green slap-bracelet that glows in the dark before he lets them pass.

“You sure this is okay?” Quentin enters and looks back at the handful of students who have arrived early. They are standing in a line that wraps around the block, tickets and IDs in hand.

“You’re my plus-one.” Eliot turns him away and strokes the cat ear on his head. “Guest of honor. Insider perks.”

The room is themed like a haunted mansion, dimly-lit except for the flames from the tarnished silver candelabras lining up the buffet table, behind which an enthusiastic Todd awaits with tongs in hand, ready to serve whatever lies under those chafing dishes. The usual tables around the café have disappeared to make space for an open dance floor. 

Josh is standing behind the bar, dressed like a vampire. “ _Welcome_ ,” he says, his voice thick and dramatic. He raises a silver goblet at the early guests. “Join me for a drink?”

Eliot flashes his green bracelet, which is identical to Quentin’s.

“Are you cat-man from Miraculous Ladybug?” Josh asks.

“Cat Noir,” Quentin repeats. 

“Oh, yeah, that guy. I always forget his name. You make a cute kitten.” Josh passes two goblets their way. The liquid inside is warm and colored deep red. Eliot downs it in one gulp and smacks his lips, smirking in a bloodthirsty way.

Quentin swishes his own goblet. “What’s in this?”

“If you’re trying to get wasted, my hands are tied.” Josh gives him a sympathetic look and raises his arm to show an orange bracelet. “Sorry. A bunch of Brakebills kids bid for these tickets, and the campus police grilled me about restrictions. You two get hot chocolate—in case you’re worried about the food coloring, I used hibiscus flowers, not the lazy store-bought shit.”

Quentin, still suspicious, takes a sip and lets out a grunt of surprise, nearly spitting it out. It’s sour, nothing like the sweet, creamy cocoa he’s expecting, and reminds him of raspberries. 

“It’s ruby chocolate,” Eliot explains, taking Quentin’s goblet and finishing the drink for him. “Hit us with something else?”

A few minutes later, Quentin is seated among the chairs to the other side of the room with a mug of apple cider as he gazes upon Eliot’s perfect face with a flush of heat down his neck that does not come from the cinnamon in his drink. His admiration is cut short when the door opens, and Margo and her plus-one steps in. Margo is a Greek Goddess crowned with a golden hairpiece shaped like vines, perfectly coordinated with Eliot. She embraces the glamor like a rightful deity, but it’s the sight of the woman holding her hand that takes Quentin by surprise.

“Julia?”

Julia waves, then bounces over to give Quentin a hug. “Told you you’d make a cute kitten,” she says. 

Like Margo and Eliot,  Quentin has matching costumes with his best friend. But Julia has taken her own spin on Ladybug, opting for a red dress with black polka-dots instead of a bodysuit to wear with her mask and her pigtails. _She_ had been smart enough _not_ to make a bet with James, but she’d decided to come as Ladybug for the hell of it, and to keep her poor friend company. Unlike Quentin’s costume, though, her Ladybug dress makes her gorgeous, not _cute_. 

“She’s my plus-one. I saved her from lining up with the peasants.” Margo struts over from the bar and hands a silver goblet to Julia, which she accepts with a peck on Margo’s cheek. “You’re Ladybug’s cat? Aww.”

“ _Cat Noir,_ ” Quentin says for the third time.

Julia and Margo clink their goblets and finish their drinks.

“You make a cute kitten,” Margo says, and Quentin wants to sink into the floor and never resurface.

Quentin doesn’t have much time to wallow before Julia spots the DJ and pulls Margo away, giving her best friend one last reassuring look. 

Eliot and Quentin exchange a look of shock that evolves into knowing grins as a smug Margo follows her date to the dance floor. The DJ turns out to be Penny, Quentin’s roommate who had practically disappeared from their dorm after hooking up with a sultry, curly-haired woman during orientation, and never returned. Quentin waves. Penny scowls and ignores him.

“Bambi swings many ways,” Eliot says. He’s checking up on their best friends, watching Julia take the lead while Margo allows herself to be swept away. “I didn’t know your Julia has similar tastes.”

“Guess we have more in common than we thought,” Quentin says.

The music starts as the guests outside file in, ushered in pairs by the bouncer. The first few songs are remixes of classic Halloween tunes. Quentin sits them out with Eliot after grabbing a plate of food that looks like brains, but is actually pink mac and cheese topped with breadcrumbs and bacon bits. True to his reputation as a chef who can elevate the most pedestrian palettes, Josh has outdone himself with the quality of his party food. 

By the time Quentin is stuffed to the brink of a food coma with macaronis and pumpkin breads and a caramel apple that nearly fuses his teeth together, most of the couples have strayed from the dance floor in search of their own sustenance, now served by Josh. Todd has switched to drink duty, and is currently entertaining a group of ladies with glasses of mimosa mocktails. 

The soundtrack fades into a melodramatic orchestral piece that Quentin can’t place. Eliot rises from his seat and holds out his hand. “Humor me, Coldwater.”

Quentin Coldwater has two left feet, but it is a fact he has not yet shared with the man standing in front of him, suave with the confidence of Alexander fucking Hamilton from the Broadway musical but pleading with a soft, sincere question in his eyes. Quentin Coldwater also has one dozen pre-established excuses to talk himself out of occasions in which he may be required to dance and make a fool of himself, excuses which he has etched into his memory in a numbered list. But when he meets Eliot’s eyes, the excuses vaporize in his head, leaving a blank slate.

“I don’t know how to dance. I’ll trample over your feet,” Quentin warns, already standing up and accepting the invitation.

Eliot leads him to the dance floor, their hands entwined. “Follow my lead.”

There is no drunken haze to blame for Quentin’s lack of coordination as the song starts, but whereas he usually turns bright tomato red and makes a beeline for the exit, this time he laughs as Eliot tries to steer him into some fancy formation, wobbling like a tipsy penguin while his cat’s tail sways behind his legs. Any embarrassment he has is shadowed by the looming silhouette of the Greek God holding his hand and touching the small of his back. 

“Where did you learn to dance?” Quentin asks.

“Bambi hooked me up with a guy before my audition last month.”

“Did you get the role you want?”

“I did.” Eliot spins them around, voice steady when Quentin is nearly out of breath. “I’m playing Prince Charming in the winter production.”

“From _Snow White_?”

“Think _Snow White_ and _Cinderella_ and _Frozen_ in one happy clusterfuck with new songs and meta commentaries from a narrator offstage.”

“So, a crossover?”

Eliot takes a deep breath, wincing like he’s wounded. “It’s a generational commentary on heteronormativity, Q. A creative interpretation. A fantastical parody.”

_So, a crossover._

Quentin nods and keeps his mouth shut, knowing he has to pick his battles, what with the prospect of going back home with Eliot tonight becoming a reality.

“And Charming gets the guy, and Snow White kisses Anna, happy endings, curtains.” Eliot curtsies, bowing his head. “An alumnus wrote the script. We ate that shit up.”

“Who’s Charming’s guy?” Quentin asks.

Eliot grins and lowers his head to Quentin’s cat ear—fuck him—and murmurs, “No spoilers.”

Quentin pouts. Eliot straightens and continues leading their dance, reveling in Quentin’s jealousy like it’s a turn-on.

“You should come see it. December ninth to eleventh,” Eliot says. Then, dropping his grin, “But I know it’s right before finals week, so if you can’t, no hard feelings.”

Quentin shakes his head. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

He doesn’t get to say anything else before Eliot leans down and kisses him with fervor, and the promise is sealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Belated Halloween and… Merry November? That’s a greeting, right? Thank you all for reading. I hope you’ve enjoyed this story, and I’d love to hear your thoughts :)
> 
> You can find me on [tumblr](https://chaptersonetoinfinity.tumblr.com/).


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